


Growing Pains

by vienn_peridot



Series: Syngnath Chronicles [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Syngnath, Bathing/Washing, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Ovaria!Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift's rebuild at the hands of New Crystal City's medical team isn't integrating properly with his Syngnathi physiology.<br/>Wing makes progress in breaking through the Ovaria's walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveDrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveDrift/gifts).



> This takes place in the first 1-2 weeks of Drift's time in New Crystal City.  
> It is part of the 'Main' IDW-set Syngnath timeline as well as coming before Tenebris, which branches off from it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift can't sleep and goes in search of some pain relief.

#  Chapter One

Drift couldn’t recharge.

Nothing he tried would let him ignore his sore frame long enough to initiate his recharge sequence. The Ovaria was so exhausted he swore even his colour nanites felt tired. The partial rebuild required to save his life had used parts that weren’t completely compatible with Drift’s base physiology.

Even a week later he _still_ hurt.

Every single thing that had been replaced ached as his frame fought to integrate the new parts. He _needed_ to shut down so his autorepair could get to work on it and have him hurting a little less in the morning.

Frustratingly, the pain was keeping Drift from getting the rest he needed to reduce it.

And just to rub acid in his wounds he could tell that Wing was already recharging.

The Knight’s field was relaxed, lapping softly at the Ovaria’s senses. Drift pulled his own field in and glared resentfully across the room at the occupant of the other berth. The jet looked so peaceful that a large piece of Drift wanted to kick Wing’s berth so he wouldn’t have to endure those soft little whistling snores that were taunting him with their promise of rest.

He _needed_ recharge so badly it was torturous to see someone else getting what he couldn’t have, like watching someone else refuel while you were starving.

Drift shut his audios off and flopped to his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to shake Wing awake and share the insomnia.

He didn’t want any more of the jet’s pity.

Still unused to the new armour, Drift misjudged his movements and sent an agonizing jolt through partially-integrated circuitry. He bared his denta at the ceiling until it faded. If he could _just shut down_ he’d be able to ignore it for a bit. The double-thickness blanket donated to him by a Knight who shared his frametype was now only covering half of his frame, but the Ovaria hurt too much to bother untangling himself so it covered him properly.

It wasn’t really enough to keep him properly warm, anyway.

Another half-cycle of staring blankly at the roof and Drift _still_ wasn’t any closer to recharge.

It was time for desperate measures, before he resorted to waking Wing up and begged the jet to knock him out.

Bringing his audials back online, the Ovaria sat up slowly and shifted to put his pedes on the floor.

Wing sighed in his sleep, field flickering.

He didn’t wake up.

Moving as quietly as he could in his still-awkward new frame, Drift slipped out of the berthroom and through the main room of Wing’s quarters.

For the first time since being imprisoned here his optics didn’t immediately seek the door to the city. Instead, they were focused on his destination.

The private washracks.

Every single Knight seemed to have them part of their homes and it was the one luxury Drift approved of with a whole spark. In public washracks _things_ happened to guttermecha and lower-ranked Decepticons.

Things he didn’t want to remember.

Drift crept inside the washracks and closed the door behind him, flicking the privacy latch. It wasn’t a proper lock but it was far better than nothing. The illusion of safety was enough to let him relax just a bit.

Over the last few orns the Ovaria had discovered that his captors didn’t seem to care what he did with himself on nights  when he couldn’t recharge.

Drift was free to entertain himself quietly so long as he didn’t try to leave Wing’s home or stab the Knight in his sleep. After the initial spark-deep exhaustion had worn off the instincts of a lifetime made recharging in the same room as another impossible, unless he was so worn-out he was essentially asleep on his pedes to begin with. After that the Ovaria often found himself getting up to seek the illusion of privacy Wing’s washracks provided.

Sometimes he’d actually fall asleep in here, propped in the corner in the same way he’d slept on the streets. After the first time Wing hadn’t said anything, just tapped on the door and poked his head in to ask Drift what additives he felt like to cover the taste of his recovery-grade energon.

Tonight all Drift wanted was warm solvent easing the aches of his frame enough to maybe let him recharge. He’d dry off and crawl back into his borrowed berth once the pain was down to an ignorable level.

Since he was already clean Drift selected the closest thing to PH-neutral Wing possessed, flicked the shower on and cranked the temperature up as high as he could stand without damaging the medic’s work.

It was bliss.

Tense cables relaxed and too-tight armour plating expended ever so slightly under the steaming spray. Drift barely heard the moan that left his vocaliser as he fluffed his armour out to let the solvent flow under and around it, carrying the heat to his core. As the burden of maintaining his core temperature eased his frame was able to divert just that little bit more energy towards self-repair.

It wasn’t much, but it helped.

Right now every little bit helped.

The small room filled with clouds of steam and an idea wormed its way through Drift’s processors.

Why not?

He’d have to do this at some point. Might as well get it over with.

A quick glance around the empty washracks reassured a lifetime of paranoid survival urges and Drift engaged the transformation sequence that would restore his frame to its true shape. He hadn’t done this since arriving in New Crystal City

For a moment the Ovaria felt a wonderful sense of decompression as his frame began to expand, subspaced mass returning to its rightful place and internal systems unfolding like organic flowers.

Then it began to hurt.

Drift had been expecting some pain. _Obviously_ there would be some the first transformation after an extensive rebuild.

But this, _this_ …

It was like acid eating him from the inside out. Each plate being pulled in six directions at once and _none of them_ the right one. Struts felt like they were punching through everything in their path in their hurry to expand. His protoform ran like magma.

His legs gave out, sending him to his knees.

If he made any sound, Drift couldn’t hear it over the racket of his fuel pump roaring in his audios. The Ovaria bared his sharpened denta at the tiled wall and snarled low in his vocaliser, stubbornly forcing his way through the rest of the transformation sequence.

There was no way in the _Pit_ some semi-integrated replacement parts were going to keep him from _getting some fragging recharge_.


	2. Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumps in the night.  
> Wing goes to invesitgate.

#  Chapter Two

Wing woke when he heard Drift sit up.

The jet kept his optics offline, using his audials to monitor the minute whirrs and clicks of the grounder’s frame as Drift crept out of the berthroom.

Wing knew that Syngnathi had better EMF-related senses than Cybertronians, but he wasn’t sure how well he’d been fooling Drift into thinking he was still asleep whenever his charge went on a night-time prowl around the confines of Wing’s home. After the first night when he’d interrupted the Ovaria halfway through hacking the apartment door there had never been any indication that Drift knew Wing was awake.

After a few moments of quiet listening Wing heard the washrack door open and close, telling the Knight where his charge had gone.

When sound of solvent hitting plating filtered through his apartment Wing relaxed. If Drift was soaking out the aches from their sparring session today then Wing wouldn’t need to worry about him falling asleep in there. The first time Wing had found tho Ovaria asleep in the washracks had been… memorable.

At least it had been easy to replace the door.

Wing knew he’d thrown the Decepticon pretty hard today, unintentionally venting some of his frustration in the controlled violence of the training rooms. Guilt chewed at the edges of his spark and Wing rolled to lie on his stomach, thumping his forehelm into the cushion.

It wasn’t Drift’s fault. Not entirely. It was extremely unfair of Wing to take it out on him.

He’d make it up to Drift tomorrow; get some of that mineral-rich geothermal energon or offer to spar someone with a larger Knight so Drift could get some vicarious revenge by seeing Wing get _his_ aft kicked for a change.

That would probably work.

Figuring Drift would be a while, Wing decided it was safe to recharge a little while he showered. He activated a little-used program and keyed it to wake him up when the soft pattering sound of falling solvent stopped.

With that taken care of, the jet was halfway through his recharge sequence when the melody of a strange transformation sequence, followed quickly by a pained cry and the crash of a falling body. The shout had him on his pedes and in front of the closed washrack door before he’d consciously worked out where the sound had come from.

The washracks.

 _Drift_.

“Drift?”

Low groans and the sounds of badly-executed transformation answered.

“ _Drift!_ ”

This time it was silent except for the sound of falling solvent.

“Drift, I’m coming in.” Wing gave the Syngnath that much warning before jarring the latch open with one well-placed punch and sliding the door open.

Steam flooded out of the washracks and Wing revved his flight turbines to clear the air enough for him to see what was going on. What met his optics was quite possibly the last thing in the universe he’d expected.

Drift, crumpled in a pile on the floor, solvent hot enough to sear delicate sensors spilling over his frame.

A soon as the situation hit his processors Wing was across the small space in a flash, switching off the solvent flow and dropping to a crouch beside Drift, ready to haul him bodily off to the healers as soon as the Syngnath was cool enough to touch.

“What did you do that for?” Drift demanded; the snarl in his vocaliser at odds with the pain and longing that flooded his EM Field before he stamped on it, glaring up at Wing. “ _Turn it back on!_ ”

It was only then Wing realised that Drift had taken on his true form for the first time in their (admittedly short) association. It took the Knight an enormous effort to wrench his optics away from the slit-pupilled blue ones that bored accusingly into him to confirm what he suspected.

Drift was definitely larger, having somehow gotten taller and then wider in proportion to the increase in his height. Even though he was slumped on the floor Drift’s frame still reached higher than Wing expected it to. The audial flares had taken on a slight upwards tilt, but they were still the same white bladelike shapes the jet had become familiar with.

“Fragging _Pit_.” Drift snarled, reaching for the tap when Wing didn’t move.

Reacting on reflex, Wing’s arm lashed out and grabbed Drift by the wrist before he could reactivate the solvent shower. Absently, Wing noted the short, hooked claws which extended from Drift’s enlarged fingertips at the unexpected touch.

“It’s set too hot; you’ll scald yourself.” Wing said, forcing himself to meet Drift’s optics again.

The slit-shaped visual apertures didn’t seem so strange this time. Wing could easily read the anger in them even without the benefit of the field lashing at his own with fury and those strange Syngnath frequencies.

“It _won’t_.” Drift said emphatically. “These slagging parts are integrating but they’re taking _forever_ and it feels like slow acid eating through me. The heat _helps_.”

Wordlessly, Wing released Drift’s wrist and grabbed a detachable showerhead instead, switching on the solvent flow and directing it over the largest portion of the Ovaria’s recently added plating. Drift exhaled through his vents, a long sigh of relief that flicked hot droplets of solvent onto Wing’s frame.

“Is there anything else that helps?” The Knight asked when the worst of the tension had left Drift’s frame.

“Metal supplements and some minerals I don’t know if you guys have here,” The Ovaria mumbled at the floor, shifting slightly to redirect the solvent spray to a new area, “Extra material helps speed up the integration process.”

“If you tell me which ones you need I’ll get them for you, or see if we can synthesise the molecules.” Wing promised.

Measuring the difference in Drift’s frame against what the grounder massed when in Cybertronian form, a suspicion formed in the back of Wing’s processor.

Had they been unintentionally starving Drift?

“You’ll need stronger fuel to power your self-repair systems as well as the subspaced mass.” He made it a statement instead of a question.

When Drift’s field nudged his own with what felt like an uncontrollable pulse of gratitude Wing knew he’d been right. He could feel something tight and hard within the Ovaria begin slowly unravelling.

“That would be good. The medics got their mass equations wrong.” Drift rolled onto his back and stretched out on the floor, looking up at the Knight with a slightly confused look in his optics. “I’m not sure, but I think I’m growing again. It’s probably from the rebuild.”

Wing directed the solvent spray carefully over recently-repaired areas of Drift’s torso, turning the Decepticon’s words over in his processors. He wasn’t sure what to do with this strange, fragile trust the Ovaria was extending towards him. Wing’s own development was typically Cybertronian; he didn’t know what was normal for Drift.

“How can you tell?” Wing was honestly curious. “I can’t identify any major changes to your frame since the medics repaired you.”

Drift rolled his optics, flexing his armour. Wing changed the angle of nozzle so the solvent could flow beneath the raised plating more easily. He cringed a little at the thought of solvent _that hot_ touching protoform. Perhaps Drift would appreciate a visit to the soaking pools instead of watching Wing be tossed around by a convoy-class mech?

Somehow Wing suspected that if the choice was up to Drift he’d have a hard time of choosing.

“It doesn’t show in our _Cybertronian_ forms.” Drift’s voice and field held sharp notes of contempt even though his optics were offline. “I feel heavier and everything’s a bit… off. I won’t know for sure until the new parts have integrated properly.”

“So how does that work?” Wing asked, letting confusion and open curiosity fill his field for Drift to sense. “Do you change forms and when you reassume your Cybertronian disguise you’re suddenly in a mechling or adult frame?”

Surprise snapped through Drift’s field, his optics popping online to stare at Wing with wide-pupilled shock.

“That’s what happened to me. It gave Gasket one Pit of a fright.” Drift’s optics narrowed, field withdrawing as his armour crept back towards his protoform. “How did you know?”

“I guessed.” Wing shrugged, “With what you told me it seemed logical. It’s not that different to what happens with, say, cybercats or turbofoxes as they grow.”

Drift rumbled something uncomplimentary and shifted, flaring his armour again to let the solvent run underneath it. Wing wanted to look closer, to touch and explore the Ovaria’s form and find out how it differed from those of the Cybertronians he’d known all his life. Curiosity gnawed at him but the jet restrained himself. This was the first time Drift had let down his guard at all around him and Wing didn’t want to risk losing the progress he’d made in winning the trust of this strange, wild mech.

“Is this helping, or would you like some of the painkiller chips?” Wing broke the silence before it threatened to become uncomfortable.

“No, I think this has done it.” Drift said, slowly pushing himself upright. “If I _never_ have another rebuild again it will be too soon.”

Hanging the showerhead back on the wall, Wing turned to offer the Ovaria a hand getting to his feet. Drift crouched awkwardly, his field roiling with suspicion as he stared at Wing’s hand like he’d never seen it before. Visibly bracing himself, Drift reached out, clawed fingertips just skimming Wing’s wrist. Bracing himself against the wet tiles, Wing gripped the Ovaria’s hand firmly and pulled him to his feet. He couldn’t help grinning at the look of pure astonishment plastered across Drift’s faceplates.

“Flightframes are stronger than we look.” Wing said, his wings twitched merrily as he activated the drying system to save Drift the effort of replying.

Despite the fluffed-out armour which normally made a mech’s field easier to read, Drift’s EM Field and expression were almost unnaturally blank as hot, dry air blasted through the room and sucked the moisture off their plating.

When the Ovaria felt he was dry enough he moved stiffly for the door and Wing let the drying system shut off. The puddles could take care of themselves. Now it was time to go back to berth and recharge.

Drift hadn’t bothered to reassume his Cybertronian form, so Wing was watching the mech closely enough to catch the little shiver that coursed over Drift’s frame as the cool air of the apartment hit his solvent-heated plating. Thick war-grade armour clamped down and Drift stalked off to the berthroom while Wing made a little detour.

If the Syngnath really was growing like a young cybercat, he was probably a lot more sensitive to cold than the medics had said was to be expected for speedsters. Rummaging in a cupboard, Wing figured that even if that wasn’t the case it wouldn’t hurt to make Drift a bit more comfortable while his autorepair integrated the purely Cybertronian parts he’d been rebuilt with.

Maybe it would also help make Drift a bit less snarly, although some of that was likely to be reflex hostility which Wing assumed was the default social standard of the Decepticon army.

The jet’s suspicions were confirmed when he returned to the berthroom and found Drift curled into a tight ball with only his faceplates visible outside the cocoon he’d made of his double-thickness blanket. The position for minimum heat loss and the smallest amount of ventilation required to not suffocate.

 _It’s a good thing I kept these_.

The ball of Syngnath didn’t even twitch as Wing approached the spare berth. Drift’s EM Field was held too close to sense without being impolite and probing for it.

For all intents and purposes, Drift looked like he was already in recharge. Except that after the last week Wing knew that in recharge the other mech’s field became a wall of _don’t touch/stay away/dangerous_ and Drift’s faceplates lost that hard look, softening into something almost sad.

The jet shrugged to himself and dropped the bundle he was carrying. The sound of fabric hitting the floor made Drift flinch but the grounder stubbornly continued his little charade.

Wing more than half-expected an explosion of snarling and curses when he spread the first of his spare blankets over Drift. A blaze of blue light reflected off white armour as he bent down to scoop up the next one and tossed it casually over the vibrating lump of Ovaria.

When he put the last blanket on Drift Wing felt a cautious brush at the edge of his EM Field. It was the same kind of shy, feral confusion he’d expect from an abused mechanimal; to feel it from another mech was sparkbreaking. The kind of life Drift must have endured was what the Knights had sworn to protect their people from.

“There, that should help keep the heat in.” Wing said, smiling down into those strange, slitted optics. “Just don’t suffocate or Dai Atlas won’t be impressed.”

Wing could feel Drift’s optics boring into his back as he turned and flopped belly-first onto his own berth. As he wriggled around to find a comfortable position the jet checked his internal chronometer and swore silently when he saw the time. It was much later than he’d thought.

“Drift?”

“Hmm?”

The sound was the closest thing to a purr he’d heard the Ovaria make.

“I’m cancelling morning training. I think we’ll need a few more hours of recharge and some geothermal energon to brace ourselves before going to tell the medics they fragged up their mass equations.”

Even with the muffling effect of the blankets Wing could hear Drift’s plating rattle in a displeased sequence. Medics were _never_ happy to discover that they’d made a mistake when treating a patient, even when it was a simple oversight like this.

It was an unfortunate universal constant that Unhappy Medics were Scary Medics.

 “Alright.”

The single resigned word was more than the grunt Wing had expected.

“Excellent. Goodnight, Drift.”

The Knight let his optics power down and was cueing the changes to his alarm when he felt Drift’s field brush his own, buzzing with that alien Syngnathi flavour Wing was finding oddly soothing.

“Wing?” The grounder sounded like he was already more than half-asleep.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

The impression Wing got from the dense strangeness of Drift’s field was gratitude for more than the change to their schedule. It was something… else.

Like he was trying to thank the Knight for caring.

Before he could figure out what to say, Wing felt the strange field withdraw and solidify into the distinctive feel of ‘Sleeping Drift: Approach With Care.

“You’re welcome.” The jet whispered, smiling as recharge claimed him.


End file.
